The Grande Dementia

the air I breathe, smoke, my tongue unspent ash from a cigarette, a broken fingered dance on a page, like knives that nick instead of stab, and guns that jam, a trigger on my finger commiserating.

the holey craters behind my eyes, my own doors to nowhere, where the only rule is: “do not survive”, biding my time that isn’t my time, waiting for a flock of starving crows, to carry my mutterings into the sky.

i have a flower growing out of my brain, a beautiful red rose made all out of pain, that blooms like buried doves, and inside of every screwdriven divot is one unrequited love, pretending i’m crippled, with a notarized contract that reads, “you are not to be forgiven.”

my whole soul tainted red, with pity in my chest for the psychopath that lives in my basement, a small gesture of goodwill for all the craven and wicked, burning good witches, down in the valley’s unguarded prison chapel’s kitchen.